


Making My Own Road Out of Gravel and Some Wine

by equalopportunityobsessor



Series: So You Were Never a Saint, and I've Loved in Shades of Wrong [4]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equalopportunityobsessor/pseuds/equalopportunityobsessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's pretty clear to Joan that if Sherlock has a type, she's not it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making My Own Road Out of Gravel and Some Wine

Joan had dated a man from Mexico while in med school. They'd been friends first, in the way that only people with zero time and motivation for anything outside of academics can be friends - and they'd dated in the way that only people with a visceral understanding of  _death_  and too many nightmares can date.

He'd tried to explain to her the difference between "Te quiero" - 'I want you': to love like you love a friend or a parent - and "Te amo" - 'I love you': to love like you love the other half of your soul.

She wishes she could explain this to the people that give her that look, the one that says "You're not sleeping with him? Then why do you put up with him?".

(As though Sherlock's companionship is only compensated by the quality of her orgasms. As though 'friendship' is an undervalued kind of love. As though he can't be charming and loving and  _lovable_  without assistance from her reproductive hormones. As though Sherlock isn't the only thing worth  _looking at_  anymore.)

Instead, all she says is "We're just friends. Besides, I'm not his type." She says this with her 'Mysterious Feminine Smile', the one she had to perfect that time her high school sweetheart was actually sleeping around with the whole cheer-leading squad, and the only way to save face was to convince everyone she was above it all.

(Joan tries not to imagine what sex with Sherlock would be like - it makes her unspeakably lonely and, yes, okay, a little bit horny sometimes too. Mostly, she just thinks it would be terrifyingly…  _intimate._  Sex always is for Joan - bodies tear themselves apart during orgasm, and it's  _visceral,_  and she's present in the act like she ~~isn't~~ wasn't during surgery. Racing hearts. Laboured breaths. Circulatory systems saturated in hormones, and brains drowning in neurotransmitters - she can feel the rush in her  _fingertips_  and it's  _intoxicating_  - but with Sherlock? She already knows Sherlock's body almost better than her own, but doesn't understand his mind. Sherlock knows every wrinkle of her thoughts, but her body is still a mystery. To trade that equilibrium for something...  _other_  is not a prospect Joan relishes, really.)

Except, ever since the ballerina case, there's been that little voice in the back of Joan's mind - the one that won't be crushed by medical tomes memorized, by walking in stilettos conquered, or by cheekbones finally grown into.

What if she genuinely isn't his type?

What if they're not sleeping together because Sherlock doesn't appreciate her for anything _other_ than her brain?

Then she stops thinking and starts panicking, and cataloging, and  _comparing,_  God, that's the worst. Because Sherlock brings stunningly beautiful creatures home, all willowy limbs and Bambi eyes, and there's nothing about any of them, not one, that reminds Joan  _anything_  of herself. She'd absolutely rather Sherlock be sleeping with her doppelganger. At least, then… Actually, no. That would be worse.

It takes a week, during which (thankfully) Sherlock brings no one else home, for Joan to get over her little hissy fit, and face herself down in the mirror again. Her hipbones aren't visible through the flesh of her stomach, and honestly she wouldn't want them to be. Her legs aren't model-thin (none of her is, really) but they're sleek from all her jogging. Her arms are losing all the ropes of muscle built for fine-motor control of scalpels and needles, and while perhaps that is more _traditionally_ aesthetic, it's the only thing Joan finds truly disappointing about herself. It's a bit of a relief, actually, to get over the crippling insecurities.

Sherlock is her  _partner,_  regardless of and independent from any kind of sexual attraction. She wants Sherlock because she loves him- it's okay if it's not the same for him.

Joan practically skips down the stairs, smiling broadly at a bemused Sherlock who meets her at the bottom - he smiles back at her, apparently helplessly.

"Tell me there's a case today, Sherlock, please," Joan dares recklessly, breathlessly, adrenaline fizzing in her veins. This, yes, she can do this. She can love Sherlock because Sherlock is always happening to her, and that means she will never be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Lucy Liu. She is gorgeous and darling, but let's face it, we all have those days. As always, any and all comments are sincerely appreciated, and thanks for reading!
> 
> Title from the song 'Black Sheep' by Gin Wigmore, which is totally Joan's theme song, and will be the soundtrack for many fics to come.


End file.
